the mirror

you stare at yourself in the mirror.
you no longer
have any brown hair.
it's white, silvery.
you are frosted with white hair.
you've gained weight.
there is at least ten pounds
you'd like to get rid of.
but it's hanging on
to your belly
like a baby in it's first
trimester.
what about sit ups,
what about a complete
dipping into
some hair dye.
you don't like getting old.
you lie about your age,
but your aches and pains
give you away.
people ask you if you'd
like the senior discount
on meals
and movie tickets.
everyone calls you sir.
you see your mother in
the mirror, your father.
you are getting shorter
by the day. you want to
shoot a gallon of botox
into your bald head and get
rid of these deep
crevices that have formed
seemingly overnight.
but you do nothing.
you shower, you get dressed.
you go to work.
you have surrendered to life
and try to be happy
in the crumbling shell
you've been blessed with.